


possibly; maybe

by SomeTorist



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Misunderstandings, Slow Build, their coffee shop is called The Grind i mean what more could you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:24:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeTorist/pseuds/SomeTorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry speaks slow like a turtle and he wears beanies every day and his fingers are long and his shoulders are broad and he laughs with his whole body and Louis wants to kiss him, maybe.</p><p>(or, a coffee shop au wherein louis works in liam's father's coffee shop, and harry walks through the door one day.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	possibly; maybe

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest fic I've ever published. It is also: 1.) my first foray into RPF, and 2.) my first foray into 1d writing. So sorry in advance if I've butchered the standard interpretation of your baby/ies, I guess? Except also maybe I'm not. Nyeah.
> 
> Major thanks to both [Anjali](http://www.pbanjali.tumblr.com) and [Arti](http://www.lmpaynes.tumblr.com) for being lovely and supportive and generally wonderful.
> 
> Standard disclaimer that I'm not a member of One Direction, I do not know them or their families/friends in the slightest, I've never even met them, I only fell into this a few weeks ago, I never asked for this, etc.

“Right, but does soy milk have any _milk_ in it?” the brace-faced boy asks _again_ , and when he grows up, this kid’s glare’s going to be strong enough to send lesser men running. Louis isn’t a lesser man, though, and also this kid has a _lot_ more growing up to do, because Louis’s _already answered his fucking question three times_.

He’s exhausted enough to _feel_ the bags under his eyes this morning, and this kid’s already taken so long that their queue almost reaches the front doors, now, so he doesn’t say _No, of fucking course not_ , much as he wants to. Instead, he plants both hands on the counter, plasters a smile across his lips. “Only certain kinds,” he answers sweetly, lying out his ass, but the kid perks up, grinning.

“Yeah? And you stock the non-milk soy milk?”

“On every day that ends with ‘y,’” Louis affirms, still smiling. The kid blinks confusedly at him for a moment, and Louis huffs out a sigh. His wit is clearly being wasted. So he spells it out as clearly as he can: “Yes, sweetheart. Yes, we do.” The kid beams.

“Great! I’ll have a vanilla latte with non-milk soy milk, then!”

“Right-o,” Louis acknowledges, the smile starting to feel painful enough on his lips that he lets it fall away as he starts ringing up the kid’s receipt, biting back an enormous yawn in the process. Fucking Zayn and his fucking bacon croissants.

Louis had come back to their flat from a night down the pub with the lads to the delicious, _unbelievable_ smell of _something_ wafting from their kitchen. And he’d been pretty pissed, but he distinctly remembers watching, completely mesmerized, as Zayn, sleeves expertly rolled to his elbows, expertly rolled croissant after croissant while something low and slow, with a winding melody, crooned at the both of them from their radio in the corner. He remembers sneaking bits of dough into his mouth when Zayn wasn’t looking, remembers Zayn mercilessly pinching at his hands when he got caught. He remembers planning to sleep after these five minutes, these next ten minutes, these next fifteen minutes, until it was half five in the morning and Louis had work in a few hours anyway, fuck, so he just… hadn’t slept. At all. 

Whatever. His shift at the café will be over in another… two hours. Louis huffs out another exhausted sigh before turning his attention to the next person in line.

This one is tall -- much taller than Louis -- with a red plaid button-up sitting too big on what’s obviously an obscenely lanky frame. There’s a beanie crammed over brown curls, and Louis would bet all his month’s earnings that, if he wanted to look over the cashier counter, he’d be able to spy skinny jeans plastered to his legs. Not that Louis wants to look. 

He just wants to _sleep_ , to be honest.

He spends a few moments just looking at this bloke, who’s gazing up at their chalkboard menu with a look so serious, so concentrated, that if Louis weren’t in a _totally shit_ mood, he might even find it cute. As it stands, though, all things considered, he’s getting fucking impatient.

He coughs. “So d’you want something, or…?”

The bloke doesn’t even start, doesn’t even look Louis’s way, still immersed in all his _options_. “Your espresso any good?” he finally asks. His voice is low, raspy, and so. fucking. _slow_. 

Louis decides he hates him.

“It’ll leave you speechless,” Louis promises, his smile all teeth. The coffee is shit. He knows it; Zayn knows it; their regulars know it. But this bloke, though -- he clearly _isn’t_ a regular. And Louis might be running on empty and he might hate the world right now, but hey, he figures it’s still his responsibility to _educate_ this slow-talking, beanie-wearing beanpole who’d thought it’d be a good idea to try the coffee from a hole-in-the-wall shop called The Grind, a shop whose standalone chalkboard outside has a tiny penis sketched lazily in the bottom left corner. 

“Brill,” the bloke says, _finally_ pulling his gaze from the overhead chalkboard, and that smile would’ve had Louis weak in the knees if he weren’t too busy fantasizing about all the ways to pull that beanie off those curls and destroy it: incineration in the ovens or death-by-blender or-- “And, uh… one of these, too, yeah?” Louis snaps back to attention just in time to see the bloke pointing at one of Zayn’s croissants in the display case.

“Sure thing,” Louis replies easily, punching at the buttons on the till. “One croissant, one large espresso, anything else?” The bloke blinks at Louis’s -- devious, thanks -- assertion of the size of his espresso order, but Louis watches him shrug and decidedly doesn’t rise to Louis’s bait. 

“Nah,” is all he says. The fucker.

“Seven pounds forty,” Louis sings, but the bloke doesn’t even seem fazed by the steep price, handing a tenner over almost immediately.

“Keep it,” he says, even before Louis can begin to return him his change, and Louis can’t help it, he _feels_ his eyes narrow -- he isn’t someone’s fucking charity case, no matter how bashful their smile. But there _is_ a tip jar, right by the counter’s edge, so Louis drops the coins in himself, jaw set, before moving to assemble the bloke’s order.

“Name?” Louis bites out, sharpie poised over the plastic cup, but the bloke’s small smile only grows at Louis’s _obvious_ exasperation.

“Harry,” he offers, clearly, like he’s doing his very best to pronounce his name right to prevent label mix-ups, like Louis can’t do his fucking job, or something. Hardly sparing it a second thought, Louis scribbles an enormous _Hazza_ on the cup before setting it down, pulling the lever on the espresso machine, and grabbing a croissant from the tray to put in a bag and thrust at this _Harry_ person.

“Cheers,” Harry says lightly, before moving down to wait for his large cup of liquid _shit_ , and Louis’s smile doesn’t feel as fake, now.

“Enjoy,” he crows, his smile closer to a smirk than a grin, probably, but whatever, fuck it. “Next!”

* * *

The next time Louis sees that _Harry_ person, to his own utter and great surprise, is the very next day. El had called in sick so Liam came instead, skipping his afternoon Econ class with an, “Ah, well,” and a half-assed frown that fooled absolutely no one, because everyone who loves Liam knows that he has absolutely _no_ interest in majoring in business or in taking over the shop after graduation. Well. Everyone who loves Liam except his whole entire family knows it. But Liam’s the Perfect Son incarnate, the shit, so as much as Louis’s tried to convince him to switch to English to teach at the college level, like Liam’d constantly, _always_ talked about when they were kids, Liam’s right stubborn when he wants to be. 

“Alright, you’re on till duty, then,” Louis had said brightly, “Put that horrible, soul-sucking Econ class to _some_ use, yeah?” Which put Louis on beverage-making duty for the day, which is fine. Variety is the spice of life, and all that. It also meant that Louis couldn’t realize _that Harry person_ had come back until he hears the unmistakable drawl of his voice.

“Yeah, no, definitely not. Not after yesterday,” he mumbles, and Louis vows not to turn around, never to turn around again.

Liam _hmm_ ’s sympathetically, even though he’s the son of the sodding owner, you’d think he’d have a bit more pride in what he’s decided will be his future forever. “Yeah, we haven’t _quite_ managed to get our coffee just right, yet. Sorry about that.”

That Harry person huffs out a laugh, and Louis, still facing the espresso machine, resolutely _does not turn around_. 

“S’alright,” Harry says, and Louis’d bet ten quid he’s smiling. “There anymore of those croissants from yesterday?”

Louis can hear the frown in Liam’s voice, can imagine him furrowing his brow in concentration. “Croissants? Um… not sure…” And then there’s a hand at Louis’s arm, and he’s being tugged to face forward, and yup, that’s another beanie perched on those curls, and yup, that’s a different plaid button-up but it’s plaid all the same. “Lou?” Liam asks, nudging him, “There any more croissants in the back, d’you know?”

Louis flashes a _blinding_ grin at that Harry person. “Nope! ‘Fraid we’re fresh out! Too bad, eh-- _Hazza_?”

Louis isn’t sure how he’d expected Harry to respond, but his amused, toothy grin definitely comes as a surprise. And he’s already vowed to hate him, so he ignores the swooping sensation in his gut. “Harry,” he corrects lightly, chuckling, and Liam’s looking between the two of them, obviously confused.

“So you two know each other?” Liam asks slowly, blinking. Harry opens his mouth to answer, but Louis beats him to the punch:

“I was the one who sold him the shit coffee yesterday,” Louis offers, smirking proudly, folding his arms across his apron. Liam makes a noise of understanding, and then Louis is very pointedly glancing behind Harry at the ever-growing queue. They’re in between the lunch break and the just-getting-off work crowds, so the shop isn’t _too_ crowded, but still. Harry doesn’t seem to notice-- or, if he does, he doesn’t care. Louis watches him clasp his hands behind his back, rocking back on his heels, that same carefully considering look on his face from yesterday. 

“Your tea any better than your coffee?” he asks, and there’s a wry twist to his lips that Louis wants to either kiss or slap off, he isn’t really sure anymore. And just as Louis’s about to lie through his teeth, a _fuck no_ on his tongue, Liam pipes up, beaming.

“Luckily, yeah! Especially when Louis here’s the one making ‘em.” And then Louis is hipchecked, and he knows he’s scowling, but Harry’s turned the full brunt of his Considering Face on him, now, and Louis stares back defiantly. Just _let_ this yuppie, hipster, beanie-clad twig consider him, ha. 

“Yeah?” Harry asks, voice low enough to kickstart, jumpstart something simmering deep in Louis’s gut. He feels his scowl deepen.

“Best tea in a five block radius,” Louis says, lifting one eyebrow in a challenge.

“Ten block radius,” Liam says immediately, proudly. Louis warms at that, throwing an affectionate glance at Liam before dramatically flicking his fringe out of his eyes, planting a hand on his cocked hip-- all mock arrogance, now.

“Yeah, well, you know,” he says, gazing wistfully off into the distance for good measure. He sneaks a glance at Harry, who’s _beaming_ at him, and fuck, that’s a dimple. Louis drops his arm, coughs. “...So. You want one, Hazza, or what?”

“Only if you’re making it,” Harry replies immediately, easily, and maybe Louis doesn’t want to throw his beanie into the blender as _much_ today as he did yesterday. 

No, wait, hang on, he’s supposed to be hating Harry-- Louis had _made a vow_.

“Done and done,” he says, tone all business, and he very purposefully turns his back to Harry, busying his hands with the tea and the cup and the hot water while Liam finishes ringing him up.

“Zayn made cheese danishes last night,” Louis hears himself throw over his shoulder, oops, fuck. Too late now, though, right? So he turns back around, and Harry’s blinking at him from over the display case.

“...Zayn?” he parrots slowly, one hand coming up to absently scratch at a curl peeking out of the beanie.

Louis rolls his eyes, folds his arms again. This bloke’s like a turtle or something, Jesus. “He’s the one who made those croissants yesterday. He makes different shit every night, and last night it was cheese danishes.” Louis leans forward conspiratorially, and doesn’t smirk when Harry does the same. “He says he ‘has a system,’ but I think he’s a fickle twat--”

“Hey,” Liam cuts in, frowning, and Louis straightens again to roll his eyes. “He’s not, he just likes trying new recipes, you should know, you’re his--”

“Favorite flavor?” Louis supplies helpfully, and Liam snorts. Louis returns his attention to Harry, who’s glancing between the two of them, a small crease between his eyebrows that Louis wants to smooth away, somehow. Instead, he jams both hands into his apron pockets. “Anyway, Hazza, the point: if you liked Zayn’s croissants, you’ll like his danishes. So. Want one?”

Harry smiles, the crease smoothing away of its own accord, and he lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. “Okay, sure.”

“Brill.” And with that, Louis turns his back to Harry again, because he has tea to make, and he doesn’t turn back around ‘till three orders later, once Harry’s is ready and done. 

Harry’s casually leaning sideways against the counter, ankles crossed, long fingers dancing across the screen of the iPhone clutched in his enormous hands, tongue absently poking through pink lips in concentration, and Louis can’t breathe for it; he wants to both scowl and wank at the sight, and if a chorus of angels started singing in the background, well, Louis wouldn’t be surprised. 

Fuck, hating Harry might end up being a bit harder than he’d thought.

...Harder. Ha.

Louis manages to find his voice from somewhere, clearing his throat, and Harry blinks up at him, and if Louis feels a bit dazed in his gaze, he does his best not to show it. “Large Earl Gray for a _Mister Hazzy baby_ ,” he reads loudly from the cup, and then Harry is _right there_ , chuckling, eyes bright, cheeks dimpled and everything.

“You’re weird,” he says lightly, quietly, taking the cup from Louis, who bites back a comment about how cold his fingers are or, even worse, a _nuh-uh,_ you’re _weird._

“Indeed I am, Harold, well spotted,” he says instead, throwing him an easy smirk. There’s a moment of quiet in the loudness of the shop, Harry’s fingers gently curling around the cup, where they just look at each other.

“I like it,” Harry finally murmurs, simply, and then he’s gone, leaving Louis more dazed than he’d ever admit to in his wake.

“...Bastard,” Louis mutters to himself, like he’s proving some kind of point that he’s already forgotten.

* * *

“Friday night, lads!” Louis crows, as soon as his key has turned in the lock on the front door, and he whips back around to face said lads, arms spread wide.

“Friday night!” Liam echoes happily, albeit a bit distractedly, gaze caught on Zayn as he struggles through the double doors into the shop’s kitchen, arms full of trays laden with stuffed pie pans. As soon as Zayn had crossed the threshold of the shop with said trays, Liam had been by his side immediately, offering to take a few to make Zayn’s grip less awkward, but Zayn’s a bastard who probably felt like he needed to prove his masculinity, or maybe he hadn’t wanted to put Liam out any, so he’d just shook his head and soldiered on to try to cross through to the kitchen, leaving Liam to perch anxiously on the counter and watch Zayn anxiously without trying to seem like he’s as anxious as he obviously is. Louis glares at Zayn, who isn’t even looking at either of them, the dick.

“Friday night,” Zayn mumbles, tongue poking through his lips in concentration, hissing out a triumphant “ _yes_ ” when he finally manages to get through the doors. Louis rolls his eyes at Zayn’s retreating back before quickly crossing to pull a bottle of wine from a cabinet, along with three appropriately-sized mason jars from which to drink -- because they all need to be reminded, once in a while, that The Grind, even in all the lewd-intentioned glory of its name, is still very much A Hipster Establishment. 

And what’s more hipster than a good mason jar?

There’s a loud curse and a _clash_ ing sound from the kitchen, and Liam jumps down from the counter, worried, but Louis waves his hand vaguely.

“Nah, nah, he’ll be fine, c’mon, c’mon, _drink_ ,” he urges, pushing one wine-filled mason jar towards him.

“Zayn?” Liam calls out, grasping at the jar, head craning towards the kitchen. “You alright in there?”

A beat, and then Zayn’s striding through the doors, wiping his hands on a towel, cool as anything. 

“S’all fine,” he says, over the rim of the third mason jar. 

“Well alright then.” Louis raises his own jar in a toast, even though the two other lads have already started in. “Friday night!” he crows, and drinks.

“Friday night,” the lads repeat in chorus, eyebrows raised, lips smirking, but they drink anyway, and Louis loves them for it.

They do this – late-night drinks in Liam’s dad’s hole-in-the-wall café – every Friday without fail; have done ever since Louis started working at The Grind two years ago. It’s no Saturday night clubbing, no late-Saturday night pub crawl – it’s a slow, lazy, alcohol-infused night of Liam’s favorite old-school jazz hits and of sometimes-food fights in the kitchens and of taking the piss out of each other for the hell of it, and it’s Louis’ favorite night of the week, always.

“Liam,” Louis shouts from the couch in the break room, back scratching against the stiff fabric, “Obligatory question of how classes are going?”

“They’re alright,” Liam shouts back, and Louis pokes his head around the door to prove that he’s listening and also to be able to listen better. Liam glances at him, huffs a sigh, and absently scrapes a hand over his head before continuing with a shrug. “You know. They’re… classes, I dunno, they’re fine? They’re fine.”

“Convincing,” Louis hears Zayn mutter, his lips already grasping at his second cigarette of the evening, overhead fire alarms hazily winking down at them through the wet towels Louis had thrown over them. Liam half-assedly shoves at Zayn’s shoulder, huffing another sigh that’s maybe more of a laugh than a sigh, this time.

“Alright, they’re boring, but they’re– they’re _classes_ , I’m not in it for the fun of it, y’know?” His gaze flickers from Zayn to Louis to Zayn to Louis to his feet, like he’s trying to convince everyone in the room that it’s worth it, him sinking this much time and energy and money into uni, and it _isn’t_ , all three of them fucking _know it_ , but it’s been two years of this shit, so Zayn and Louis have learned to hold their tongues by now.

“Why the fuck not–?” Louis asks, just as Zayn sighs, “Liam–”

Okay, so they’re his best mates – like _hell_ are they holding their tongues.

But Liam just shakes his head, finishes his second Mason jar of the evening, hops down from the barstool to pour himself another.

“I know, mates, I _know_ ,” he says, pouring, eyes down, “but let’s just– _not_ , tonight, okay, yeah?”

Zayn shoots Louis a Look, and Louis rolls his eyes and off the couch in the same, relatively fluid motion.

“Fine, sure,” Louis agrees breezily, padding in to join them in his socks, sliding his empty Mason jar down the counter, towards Liam. “Fill me up, barman?”

The corners of Liam’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he obliges Louis, like he always does. 

“We doing anything tomorrow?” Liam asks the room, wine bottle in hand. Zayn shrugs absently, and Louis finds himself copying the movement; Zayn shoots him a Surprised Look, this time.

“No clubs?” Zayn asks, eyebrows in his hairline, the dick. “No dancing? Strobe lights, pounding bass, the works?”

Louis glares at him before leaning his elbows on the counter, gesturing airily.

“It’s not like I’m an _addict_ , or anything, I can quit anytime I want.”

Liam snorts, and Louis glares more. Zayn flashes a smirk around his cigarette: “That’s what they all say, though.”

Louis rolls his eyes, pushes off from the counter to cross his arms. 

“I think I’m getting too old for it all, maybe,” he offers loftily, just to be contrary, but when the lads laugh, Louis has to laugh, too. 

“Okay,” Liam finally agrees, absently wiping a tear from his eye. “Whatever you say, Tommo, whatever you say.”

Zayn brandishes his now-empty Mason jar at Louis in what’s probably meant to be a threatening manner, but he ends up just looking kinda really drunk. “Then no texts whining at us when you don’t wake up with a boy in your bed on Sunday, yeah? I’ve so many better things to do than worry about your sex life,” he sighs, and Louis shoots him a coquettish wink.

“Why, Zayn, I never knew you cared! Why don’t we just–”

“Wanker,” Zayn laughs, shoving at his arm, and Louis laughs, and Liam laughs, and the Christmas lights are winking down at them even though it isn’t even November yet, and Louis is probably happy, here, in this titularly sexual-innuendo-laden café with these two losers by his side, late on a Friday night, drinking red wine out of mason jars.

* * *

Hangovers, fucking _hangovers_. Louis hates them. With a passion deeper than his passion for collecting tropically-themed Christmas decorations-- but one not as deep, apparently, as his passion for alcohol. Because that one’s just a fucking _well_ , apparently.

But whatever. So what if his head hurts, so what if he’s just worked a double shift? It’s almost eleven o’clock, which means it’s almost time for Louis to head back to the flat to promptly pass out on his bed. And the shop’s almost empty, too, now, so Louis feels perfectly at liberty to blast Beyoncé’s “Countdown” loud on the shop speakers, because it’s relevant, okay, and also it’s the perfect way to tell Harry that it’s almost closing time. 

Harry glances up from his laptop, startled, as the first few bars kick in, and Louis watches from over the counter as his frown of concentration smooths into something softer, but no less desperate. There are bags under his eyes, and his beanie seems droopier than usual. He’s been at The Grind for almost five hours, now -- Louis knows, because he’s made him five cups of tea in those five hours. He doesn’t think Harry’s eaten yet, either.

And, okay, maybe Louis had never hated him; maybe Louis had just been really fucking tired the first day they’d met-- not that anyone would ever _know_ about his fatigue-laden, super-secret vow to hate Harry. But this isn’t about hating him, now-- this is about getting home to pop a few more Tylenol pills and pass out on his beautiful, comfortable, always-there-for-him _bed_ , because Louis is tired as fuck, and sleep sounds synonymous with heaven right now.

“Almost eleven,” Louis sings out, wiping the front counter down with the rag in his hand, and he watches Harry sigh. 

“Right, yeah,” Harry says absently. Dejectedly? Fuck. Louis watches Harry bite his lip, watches Harry pull his gray beanie off to pull a hand through his curls, watches Harry scrub at both eyes with both hands before moving to close his laptop, watches Harry, who’s clearly stressed out of his fucking _mind_ , and-- Louis is only human, shit.

“It was just an observation, Christ,” Louis says, throwing the rag over his shoulder and pointedly staring at Harry, who’s blinking at him, looking confused and maybe a bit hopeful. Louis continues, grumbling, “If you’re _that_ anti-eleven, all you had to do was _say_ \-- but you should really try to grow a thicker skin, there are a lot of elevens out there, kid.” 

And then Harry’s grinning, cautious and blinding all at once. “Louis,” he breathes, “Can I stay? I have, like, two more pages, that’s it.”

Louis turns around to start heating up some more water. “Whatever you say, Hazza,” he shrugs to the kettle, already reaching for the Earl Gray, “Wasn’t really planning on going anywhere anytime soon, anyway.” 

There’s a pause where the only sound in the shop is that of the kettle slowly boiling, and then Louis hears Harry say, “Thanks, Louis,” so softly, so _sincerely_ , that Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself. And then Harry starts singing along with “Countdown” under his breath, so Louis snorts out a laugh, pulls the rag off his shoulder again, and gets back to wiping the counter down. He isn’t choosing Harry over going home; that’d be dumb. He’s just-- waiting. 

It’s different.

* * *

“Just a _sample_ , Lou -- I’ve... forgotten just how shit it is.”

The shop’s in a lull, mostly because it’s early as balls on a Thursday morning; the only customers they have at the moment is a bleary-eyed, balding professor with an ancient briefcase resting against his ankles and an even more bleary-eyed woman in scrubs who looks like she just got off shift at the nearby hospital. And Harry, of course. Harry, who’s got a neon orange beanie crammed over his curls and deep purple bags under his eyes and a cheeky smile on his lips despite it all.

Louis pities the past-him who thought it’d ever be possible to hate Harry Styles.

“Wanker,” Louis huffs with a familiar-feeling roll of his eyes, and he’s moving to grab one of their sample cups before he can think to stop himself. “I’m too good to you, you know,” he says over his shoulder, the coffee splashing into the dixie cup, “ _Really_ isn’t good for business.”

“Yup,” Harry replies around a yawn, not sounding like he cares in the slightest. When Louis turns back around, Harry is leaning all his weight against the tall glass display case, like he’s dead on his feet, and Louis frowns.

“You look like shit,” he offers, one eyebrow raised.

“Yup,” Harry says again, yawning again, stepping back to absently stretch his hands over his head. When his arms fall back down, he shrugs loosely. “We can’t all wake up looking this good, Lou,” he says, as if that’s an explanation for anything, as if that makes _any goddamn sense_ \-- but Harry is obviously exhausted, so Louis will take pity on him. He can be that big a person.

“You don’t make any sense,” Louis snorts, and oops. But Harry’s grinning at him, so it’s probably okay.

“Yup,” Harry says, and he dimples, and that’s. Jesus. Whatever. It’s whatever. Harry’s hands reach across the counter, fingers flexing, and, well, okay, now Harry’s pouting. “Coffee,” he says, “Lou. _Coffee_.”

Louis snorts again, sliding the sample cup into his clutching fingers and muttering, teasingly, “God, okay, so you’re the _needy_ type in the morning, got it,” but Harry doesn’t even seem to register it, tossing the scalding coffee back like it’s a shot of vodka, straightening his back with a shudder that sends a shiver down _Louis’s_ spine for its intensity.

“Ah, fuck, yup. S’still as shit as last time,” Harry mumbles, but he’s still grinning, blindingly, at Louis, and also it’s true, so Louis can’t really blame him.

Harry’s been coming into the shop for weeks, now, and Louis hasn’t yet been able to find it in himself to blame Harry for anything at all, actually. 

“Damn, and here I thought adding flecks of semen would _help_ ,” Louis says, just to see if massively-fatigued-Harry can still catch his bullshit.

“Good thought, but not enough; needs more,” Harry replies immediately. 

“Wouldn’t wanna overpower the coffee, though,” Louis argues.

“No, you _want_ to overpower this coffee,” Harry counters.

“Oi, you saying you prefer jizz over my coffee, Hazza? I’m offend--”

“Yup.”

“Wanker.”

“Yeah, but an honest one.”

A beat -- where Louis is looking at a placid Harry looking at a Louis who’s mock-glaring at him-- 

and then they’re laughing, loud enough to startle the bald professor into trying to _shh_ them. They ignore him, and decidedly laugh even louder.

It’s early as balls on a Thursday morning, and the leaves have started to fall off the trees just outside the storefront window, and Harry’s first class isn’t until 11, and they have time.

“Y’should try getting a new machine.” Harry’s leaning with his elbows on the main counter, now, his spine a straight line horizontal to the floor, and Louis is a goddamn _man_ who has goddamn _self-control_ , so he somehow manages to keep his gaze fixed to Harry’s, and _doesn’t_ let it skitter down Harry’s back. Louis shrugs, his aproned ass resting against the jutt of the back counter.

“Eh. Really wouldn’t be a point to it, though, would it? Customers have all learned not to order the coffee by now.” He flicks his eyebrows up at Harry. “The _bright ones_ , at least.”

Harry sweeps past the dig with a roll of his shoulders -- they’re so _broad_ , Jesus -- his fingers splaying wide across the counter. “Or at least replace the paper filters with cloth ones. It’s probably been, what, two weeks?”

Louis blinks at him. “Filters are meant to be replaced?”

Harry blinks. Straightens.

“Did you really just feed me coffee from a decades-old filter, Lou,--”

Louis flashes Harry a teasing smirk, and Harry freezes, slumps back to rest his elbows on the counter, head hanging between his shoulders, realization hitting him two seconds too late. “Oh, fuck you.”

 _If you want_ , he doesn’t say breezily-- but Louis wants to. Oh, he wants to.

“Paper filters’re less messy,” he says instead, still smirking.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry mutters. He looks up, then, and his cheeks are stained red and he’s grinning and he looks like a goddamn angel and Louis wishes he could hate him, sometimes, because that seems like it’d make everything so much easier. Harry glances at his watch, straightens again, suddenly. “It’s 10:40,” he says slowly, like a sigh, and reaches one hand out towards Louis, presumably for his orange beanie -- which had somehow, miraculously, found its way onto Louis’s head. Louis rolls his eyes but steps forward enough for Harry to pull it off his head, and Louis’s ears feel cold, now. 

“Go be smart or something,” Louis tells him, pushing at his arm, ignoring what a poet would probably call a _spark_ or a _flame_ or a goddamn _fireworks show_ at the physical contact. Harry laughs, somewhat breathlessly, takes a step back while pulling the beanie on again.

“Yeah,” he says, “Okay.”

* * *

“But what if I _like_ my coffee super, extra diluted?” Louis offers, just to be contrary. Harry huffs out a laugh, because Louis fucking hates coffee, regardless of how diluted it is or isn’t.

“Well, _normal_ people with _normal_ taste buds don’t,” Harry says, and Louis maybe wants to kiss him. Just to see if it’d make him stop smiling, for, like, even a second, because Harry smiles all the goddamn time, and Louis has a naturally scientifically inquisitive mind. It’d be a kiss for science, obviously. 

But instead, Louis just sniffs, “ _Normal_ is _boring_ , Haz,” because it’s true. Louis strives to be the very antithesis of normal on a daily basis, thanks.

“Point,” Harry replies quietly, his smile softening around the edges. There’s a moment of stillness where they just look at each other over the counter, Harry with his self-proclaimed “winter beanie” and his light pink scarf and his obscenely skinny jeans, and Louis with his work apron and his hair net and his name tag; Harry with his optimism and a smile, Louis with his bullshit and a smirk. And Louis normally hates silence, hates stillness, but he hates it less with Harry, maybe, because Harry’s the one who breaks it this time. “I’m just sayin’, Lou, if you used, like, a quarter tablespoon _more_ of coffee, the coffee’d taste a lot bett--”

“Oh, shove it,” Louis teases, just as he hears a voice that sounds like Liam’s say to his right, “You know about coffee, Harry?”

Louis shoots Liam a Look, but Liam’s too busy pulling an apron over his head to notice. Or maybe he does notice, but is pretending not to, the wanker.

“Yeah,” Harry answers easily, and Louis watches his long -- so fucking long, Jesus -- fingers idly flit across their giftcard display. He manages to swallow against his suddenly-dry throat before hopping off the back counter to roll his eyes at Liam.

“Haz used to work in a bakery,” Louis tells him, lifting an eyebrow like a dare.

“Yeah?” Liam asks, turning to Harry like Louis might be lying.

“Yeah,” Harry says again. He cocks his head, gaze flickering from Louis to Liam to Louis again. “Back home,” he clarifies, “Before uni and that.”

Liam makes a considering noise in the back of his throat and Louis does _not_ like where this is going, not at all, so he angles his body to face Harry again and says, perhaps not as disdainfully as he’d have liked, “‘Fraid pre-uni coffee-brewing just won’t cut it, kid, these are the big leagues, now-- best leave it to the pro’s, I think.”

Harry snorts. “Didn’t you _just_ tell me the filters hadn’t been changed in ten years?”

“Betrayal of confidence, Harold!” Louis bellows over the sound of Liam’s, “What? Louis, you did _what_?” Harry throws his head back to laugh in manic, ecstatic glee, and Louis wants to see him laugh forever, maybe.

And Louis isn’t surprised when, one day, he finds Harry already wearing an apron and a hairnet, already fiddling with the coffee maker behind the counter, but the sight still leaves him slightly breathless. 

“Fuck, I _knew_ it,” Louis says, hip checking Harry, apron pocket to apron pocket, “Liam’s been out to replace me for fucking _ages_ \-- should’ve known he’d be willing to upgrade to the _posh_ model.”

Harry glances at him, his attention briefly shifting from the coffee machine, and Louis wants to poke his tongue back into his mouth. Preferably with his own tongue, maybe. Harry’s grinning. “Just because I’ve been bought, doesn’t mean you can objectify me,” he says, faux-haughty, and Louis wants to kiss him. 

He forces himself to dance away instead, shoots back, “But you just make it so easy, babe!” before sliding the first tray of Zayn’s powdered doughnuts into the display case. 

It occurs to him at some point that he’d thought that Harry would look different from this side of the counter, maybe. Because sure, Louis’ seen Harry from almost every angle, but overwhelmingly it’s been from the front, because Louis sees Harry when he’s ordering shit. And also when he’s hunching over his laptop facing the window; and also when he’s napping, stretched out on his textbooks on the tabletop; and also--. No, okay, the _point_ : finding Harry on this side -- _his side_ \-- of the counter should probably scare him. It should scare him, how easy it is to work the counter with Harry beside him, behind him, around him, taking orders and brewing hot beverages and dimpling _all the goddamn time_ \-- but it doesn’t. And that-- _that_ scares him. It scares him, how scared he isn’t.

“One doughnut, one large espresso,” Louis calls out absently, and from the corner of his eye, he catches a fleetingly fond smile flit across Harry’s lips, but he’s turning away too fast for Louis to be sure.

“Consider it done,” Harry says easily, and that isn’t scary. It isn’t.

* * *

It may be because Louis is slightly tipsy, but he’s having a hard time remembering, right now, what the Friday night mason jar lads’ night was like before Harry started coming. Which, okay, was _technically_ this same night, but-- really, Louis can’t imagine him not being here with them, stuffed into the tiny booth in the back corner, playing a game that Harry had called “Questions,” for super obvious reasons.

Louis watches Harry’s forehead scrunch. “Why is the sky blue?” he asks Liam, who snorts.

“Why does money exist?” Liam replies, turning to stare at Harry.

“...D’you think money _shouldn’t_ exist?”

“Isn’t money just bits of paper?”

“Isn’t _everything_ just bits of paper, Liam?” Harry asks, eyes wide, and Liam breaks, throwing his head back, cackling, while Harry grins wide in victory.

“You’re such shit,” Zayn tells Harry, chuckling, even as Louis pushes Liam’s wine-filled mason jar towards its owner. Louis glares at Zayn.

“He is not,” Louis says, “It’s a _rule_ , Zayn -- Liam broke eye contact, so he drinks. Harry won fair and square! No need to get all--” Louis waves a hand vaguely. “-- _stroppy_ , about it.” Zayn just rolls his eyes, nudges his shoulder against Louis’, and Louis returns the favor before pointing a finger at Harry.

“My turn,” he says. Harry nods, waiting, eyes bright, as Louis racks his brain for a train of questioning that might lead to victory -- he and the lads had learned very early on that Harry is annoyingly good at his own game. He eyes Harry, a smirk worming its way onto his lips: “Why d’you like come in your coffee?”

From the corner of his eye, Louis watches Liam blanch, but Harry hardly blinks. “Why’d you put come _in_ my coffee?”

“At what temperature do you like your come brewed?”

“Doesn’t _How To Brew For Dummies_ say 93 Celsius is the best temperature for everything?”

“Christ, when did you get so _cocky_?”

“Did you know your eyes look green, sometimes?” Harry says quietly, and Louis feels the air rush from his lungs. He doesn’t know what to do with that, so he just asks, blindly--

“D’you compliment the come in every barista’s coffee, or are you just partial to mine?”

“Wouldn’t know,” Harry answers just as quietly, and yeah, maybe Louis breaks eye contact with him then, but only because Harry had just answered in an answer rather than a question-- _not_ because of the piercingly simple tone of Harry’s voice, not because of the thrill that shoots down Louis’s spine, _not_ because of the way Zayn is looking at him. Louis glances back at Harry, who hasn’t stopped looking at him, and Louis wants to fucking kiss him, but he pushes Harry’s mason jar towards him a few more inches, instead.

“I win,” Louis says, grinning, and Harry laughs easily, downs the jar’s contents in one go. “Malik!” Louis crows, turning to face Zayn, still grinning, because he needs to not be thinking about what Harry’s lips look like through the glass of the jar, and because Zayn just _gets_ him. 

“Why’re you such a wanker?” Zayn asks immediately, simply.

“Why do you deny our love?” Louis replies, just as quickly, grin widening, because this-- _this_ is comfortable. Yeah.

Zayn rolls his eyes. “Why would I want _anyone_ besides you?”

“D’you like hearing me scream your name when I climax, baby?” Louis asks, eyes glinting. Zayn snorts.

“Anyone ever tell you your o-face looks like you’re trying to eat a doughnut the wrong way ‘round?”

“Anyone ever tell _you_ you sound like a dying baby seal when you come?”

“Anyone ever compare your dick to an eraser?”

“No,” Louis says immediately, then, “Fuck,” as Zayn laughs and laughs and laughs. “Fuck you, Malik,” he says dejectedly, sniffing, before reaching for his mason jar. Zayn watches him drink it all with one eyebrow raised, then pulls him in by the shoulders to press a clumsy kiss into his hair, because Zayn is the most affectionate drunk on the planet, and that softens Louis’s _terribly embarrassing_ loss just a bit.

“Love ya’,” Zayn says simply, and Louis nudges him, laughing.

“Yeah, babe, I know,” he says, because it’s true. And the lads’ night trudges on.

* * *

“You’re pouting,” Liam points out, _ever_ so helpfully, and Louis hears himself snort.

“Am not,” he counters, turning to face Liam. “If I were pouting, I’d look like _this_ ,” he says, jutting his lower lip out to demonstrate. “And I’m not doing that, am I?”

“Why don’t you just talk to him?” Liam’s come up beside him, now, the faint pressure of his shoulder against Louis’ embarrassingly reassuring, even through their work uniforms. Louis pauses, caught in a rare moment between the choice of whether to lie or not. He hears Harry laugh from the booth in the back, and it isn’t a choice anymore.

“Nothing to talk about,” Louis says, turning away to toy with the espresso machine, because he needs to occupy his hands for fear of vomiting or punching something -- neither of which would be very convenient -- and anyway, it’s not like Harry’s _using_ it at the moment. Louis hears Liam sigh.

“Maybe he’s just a friend,” Liam offers quietly, and Louis is scoffing before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, sure,” he says, a half-assed attempt to regain lost ground, “Wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t, though, would it?”

Liam sighs again, and Louis is _positive_ that he wouldn’t have dropped it there if Harry hadn’t come up to the counter again. 

“Two more coffees?” he says, already pulling bills out of his wallet. Silence. “Er… Louis?” Louis turns to face front at that, and he shouldn’t be surprised that Liam has somehow, miraculously _happened_ to disappear at this very moment-- and yet.

“Fucker,” Louis swears under his breath, and one of Harry’s eyebrows shoots up. Louis is striding forward to take Harry’s order before Harry can say another word. “Anything else?” he drones, resolutely _not_ looking at the back corner of the shop, where he’s sure a mop of dirty blond hair is peeking out from over the booth.

“Nope,” Harry says, popping the _p_. “But we’ll probably be here awhile, so--” He shrugs. “Who knows?”

“Brill,” Louis bites back, not making eye contact, punching the order into the till a bit too harshly than is necessary, possibly, but whatever, fuck it. He turns back around to cue the machine up.

“Not too much water,” Harry says quietly from behind him, like a peace offering, but it’s not like Harry’s done anything _wrong_.

“Yup,” Louis answers simply, popping the _p_ , and he doesn’t turn around.

Louis is self-aware enough to know that jealousy is a shit look on him. Louis is aware enough to know that he has no _right_ to be jealous of the beaming blonde Harry had introduced as “Niall,” a hand resting on his lower back. But Harry has brought a _date_ to The Grind, which is just-- it’s a totally dick move, and Louis doesn’t want to think about _why_ it is, it just _is_.

When he finally turns back around with the two medium lattes, Harry’s just standing there, on the other side of the counter, hands shoved into the back pockets of his skinny jeans, looking at him. Instead of handing the drinks over, Louis places them within reach on the counter, and he knows he’s being immature, but Louis has never claimed to be anything but. Maturity is _boring_ , anyway.

Harry’s still looking at him.

Louis waits until his ass is resting against the back counter again before chancing eye contact. “They’ll go cold,” he finally says, blandly, just as Harry says, “It’s for our statistics class,” his voice quiet and desperate-sounding, and _what_?

“Yeah?” Louis asks slowly.

“Yeah,” Harry says, just as slowly. And now they’re both smiling-- cautious and hesitant and maybe a bit hopeful.

“Huh,” Louis says, shrugging like it doesn’t matter, but it _does_ , “Okay.”

“Okay,” Harry parrots, smile widening, and then he’s grabbing at the coffees. “Glad that’s all sorted, then,” he says, and it isn’t, not yet, but it will be.

“Invite him to Friday night?” Louis is calling after Harry, like an afterthought, and Harry nods, walking backwards, still grinning.

“Okay,” Harry says again, “Yeah.”

* * *

Friday night lads night mason jar night shouldn’t feel so normal without Liam, and Louis would never say as much, but it still feels pretty normal, here, with the warmth of Zayn’s thigh against his, with Louis’ socked foot burrowing under Harry’s long and gangly legs from where he’s stretching out on the opposite side of the back corner booth. Louis misses Liam, of course, but they’ve seen each other almost every day since they were three-years-old apiece, so he figures he can last without him for a few hours. Anyway, Liam and Niall both have finals, apparently, and school is important, school must come first, blah blah blah.

“D’you not have finals?” Zayn asks Harry consideringly, a newly-lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Harry blinks at him hazily before shrugging. Louis watches his lips open -- slowly, so _fucking_ slow, always, Christ -- but then Zayn is gone, sliding out of the booth, swearing under his breath. “Hold this,” he tells Louis, sticking his cig between Louis’ outstretched fingers, “Muffins’re burning.” Louis waves him away, smoke curling lazily around his wrist, the smell almost masking the faint odor of very-obviously-charring baked goods. Louis and Harry both watch Zayn shuffle through the double doors into the kitchen.

“He hates burning things,” Louis hears himself say, and Harry makes some sort of noise. Louis takes a drag from the cigarette in his hand just for something to do, because he wants to grab Harry’s collar and pull him forward and kiss him over the table, and that’s not how he wants this to happen. He wants to fucking _woo_ Harry Styles, _then_ ravish him, in that order, not the other way ‘round. Louis exhales, and they watch the smoke float between them. “So. No finals?” Louis asks, bastardizing Zayn’s question on purpose.

Harry shrugs. “I’d rather be here,” he says simply, gaze fixed on the table, a dejected sort of slope to his shoulders that Louis doesn’t know how to fix because he doesn’t know why it’s there in the first place. He’s sliding around into the space beside Harry before he can even register it, really, the red wine hazing everything away until the world is just the sensation of Harry’s spine pressing against Louis’s arm. 

“School’s important, Hazza,” Louis murmurs, hooking his chin over Harry’s shoulder, and he _feels_ Harry’s breath hitch. 

“Lots of things are important,” Harry answers, and he’s not looking at Louis, still, and he feels tense against Louis’s chest, and Louis wants to fix this, even if he doesn’t really know what’s been broken. His free hand is winding around Harry’s other shoulder, gently nudging at Harry’s cheek until Harry’s head is slowly turning towards Louis’ until they’re looking at each other, only centimeters apart. 

Zayn had tried talking to Louis about whatever this is. “It’s _obvious_ , Lou,” Zayn had managed to say before Louis had shaken his head, throwing a pinch of flour in his direction.

“Not up for discussion,” Louis had said lightly, and Zayn had sighed and let it go. It wasn’t that Zayn hadn’t been right, but Louis hadn’t wanted to talk about it. This -- whatever _this_ is -- he wants to keep to himself. And to Harry, too, maybe.

They’re breathing the same air, Zayn’s cigarette still in Louis’ hand on the table, and Louis thinks he sees sadness in Harry’s eyes, and it kills him, because Harry had chosen _him_ over going home.

“You don’t make sense, sometimes,” Harry whispers, and that’s. Jesus. It’s stunning. Harry is stunning. 

Louis kisses him.

Harry’s lips are warm and soft and they taste like wine, but maybe that’s the taste of Louis’ lips on his, or something. And there’s a moment, a moment after Harry seems to stiffen in shock, a moment where Harry seems to melt into Louis, just a bit, and Louis can’t breathe for all he’s smiling, and he moves to cup Harry’s cheek--

but Harry isn’t there.

Louis blinks.

Harry’s standing, grabbing his coat from the coat rack in the corner before Louis can even process just how far away Harry is, now.

“Haz?” he hears himself say, and now he’s the one who sounds desperate. 

“I can’t– I can’t talk to you right now,” Harry manages, voice tight, standing – so far away, too far away – in the middle of the café, scrubbing a hand across his face. 

“Okay, okay, yeah,” Louis says, the wine in his system making his own voice weak, so fucking _weak_ , and he tries to stumble to his feet, “Just let me – I can walk you –”

“No.” Harry’s backing away from him, towards the door, and Louis can’t even meet his eyes, the back of his throat is burning. “Just – stay there. I need you to just. Stay.”

“Okay,” Louis says to the floor, but it’s drowned out by the sound of the front door slamming as Harry leaves.

* * *

It’s 10:55 on a Thursday night and Zayn is laughing in the kitchen, probably at something Harry had said, and Louis is standing behind the counter with a rag in his hand, alone. He doesn’t want to think about how Harry had looked before stepping into the kitchen -- eyes red-rimmed, their bags a faint purple; a plaid collar peeking out from beneath his jean jacket -- or how tonelessly Harry’s voice had sounded when he hadn’t said hi, had just asked if Zayn was in yet. He doesn’t want to think about how Harry’s back had looked as he’d left him again.

It’s been six days since Zayn had burned his muffins, since Louis had kissed Harry, since Harry had left. Harry hasn’t been to the shop since, not even for work. 

“He said he wasn’t feeling well,” Liam had said, when Louis had finally managed to ask on Wednesday. Louis had just nodded, his throat tight, and gone to boil some water.

He’s felt unbalanced all week, off-kilter, still feels like part of him is missing, and he hates it, because that’s so fucking cliché he wants to punch something or vomit, neither of which would be very convenient. He wants to fix this, even though he knows it’s already too broken. He feels helpless.

There’s a burst of sound as the kitchen doors swing open again -- Zayn is still laughing, and Louis catches a glimpse of hands pushing at Harry’s waist, but they’re gone too fast for him to be sure, because the doors are closing again, leaving Harry and Louis alone together behind the counter. Harry looks breathless, stunned, blinding. He’s smiling. 

And then he’s striding forward forward forward, until he’s bracketing Louis against the back counter, bearing down on him, grinning. They’re only centimeters apart, and it’s like déjà vu, and Louis can’t breathe.

A beat, then: 

“Can I kiss you?” Harry asks, quiet, considering. Louis gapes, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter, but it _does_. Harry looks at him, doesn’t move to close the distance between them. “I thought you and Zayn,” he says instead, then huffs out a laugh. “I just tried to apologize for kissing you.” Louis wants Harry to smile forever, probably. “He laughed.”

Louis wants to say a lot of things -- chief among them: _why aren’t you kissing me_ \-- but he hears himself say wonderingly, almost accusingly, “You didn’t, though. _I_ kissed _you_ , Haz.”

“Didn’t wanna get between you, though, did I?” Harry replies easily, and Louis wants to touch him, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed, yet, and also he’s feeling just a bit overwhelmed.

“Shit, Haz, I just-- I want to give you--” Louis takes a breath, one hand fisting in his hair because he doesn’t know how to say it, doesn’t know how to _say_ whatever it is that’s bubbling, bursting inside him and under his skin, how he wants to be with him for so much of _forever_ that he can’t fucking breathe, how to say just how much of _everything_ he needs to give him--

“Everything,” Harry breathes, “Yeah.” Louis stares. “You can have it.” Louis breathes. “You already have it.”

“...You don’t make _any goddamn sense_ ,” Louis mutters, and Harry is _right there_ , his curls in Louis’ right hand, the skin at his waist humming under his left, his lips working against his, his tongue tasting like coffee. And Louis hates coffee, hates its taste, but he hates it less with Harry, definitely, because Harry’s the one who eventually pulls back. 

There’s a moment of calm, one forehead pressed to the other, where they just breathe.

Louis is the one to finally break the silence, this time: “Zayn’s _straight_.”

“Yup,” Harry says softly, his smile going a bit sheepish.

“He has a _girlfriend_.”

“...Yup.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah, but an honest one,” Harry says, and leans in to kiss him again. He still tastes like coffee, and Louis minds even less. When they finally pull back, they’ve both gone breathless.

“I thought about hating you,” Harry whispers like a confession. “Couldn’t do it.”

Louis snorts. “Join the club, Hazza,” he says. Harry shoots him a Look, but Louis shakes his head -- another time. “Wanna get out of here?” he asks instead, a self-aware smirk on his lips, because, hello, world’s worst chat up line. But Harry laughs, steps back, and leads Louis out from behind the counter by his hand, so it’s probably okay.

“‘Course,” Harry says, “Yeah.”’

And after they’ve worked their arms into the sleeves of their jackets, after Louis has turned the key in the lock on the door behind them, after they’ve kissed again and laced their fingers together, Harry glances down at him with a smile. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Nah,” Louis says slowly, meeting Harry’s gaze, steady, and shrugging. “Let’s just walk.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to befriend, talk to, yell at, or cry on me, my 1d blog can be found [here](http://www.onedirectionetc.tumblr.com), and my main one can be found [here](http://www.mellowblueness.tumblr.com).
> 
> And I suppose now's as good a time as any to confess that I shamelessly blasted Landon Pigg's "Falling In Love At A Coffee Shop" while writing this, because how could I _not_? So title inspiration credit must go to him. Oops.


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